


And So It Goes

by Grinner_H



Series: 15 a Piece Prompt Challenge [10]
Category: Finder no Hyouteki | Finder Series
Genre: M/M, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-05-21 11:04:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6049255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grinner_H/pseuds/Grinner_H
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For Prompt #54 - <i>Everything for You</i> (selected by <b><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashida">Ash</a></b> from <b><a href="http://insane-1.deviantart.com/art/200-Writing-Challenge-68163506">200 Writing Challenge</a></b>).</p>
    </blockquote>





	And So It Goes

**Author's Note:**

> For Prompt #54 - _Everything for You_ (selected by **[Ash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashida)** from **[200 Writing Challenge](http://insane-1.deviantart.com/art/200-Writing-Challenge-68163506)** ).

Somewhere along the way, somewhere between these titillating teases and unmasked temptation, you find yourself wishing that you were a hand.

Not any of your _own,_ powerful and remarkable as they are, but _his_ \- slender-fingered and rough-palmed, trailing a spit-slick line down his lower lip, his chin, his neck.

You _like_ him like this - bare, unrestrained, _more than willing._

His fingers find their way over the pertness of his tantalizing nipples, the clench of muscles in his lean belly, the ridged underside of his pretty cock. 

You wish you were those fingers that gradually close around his pulsing length, alternately tightening and loosening their hold in languid strokes. 

His other hand - the left one - fists the already rumpled sheets. His knees are splayed wide. His eyes are liquid fire. 

You want to be that hand which traverses the hard line of his cock, the soft skin of his balls; the damp fingers which find their way to the snug cleft of his ass. 

And his gaze - gone dark brown with hunger and something you can’t identify - sweeps over you like a long, lewd caress. 

_"Do you want me this way, Asami?"_

—

The thing is, _you’re supposed to be on that bed with him._

But.

Your shirt - sweat-drenched and unpleasantly sticky - adheres itself to your skin like an annoyingly clingy mistress. 

Your pants - zipped, buckled, belted - is unbearably tight around your straining cock and your hard thighs.

Your restraints - thick lengths of corded rope - are infuriatingly inescapable. You can feel the bite of them through the cotton of your shirt, across your chest, your upper arms, the flesh of your wrists. 

The metal of your chair is mockingly cold. 

You do not understand how that is possible, when this very room is unfathomably hot.

Takaba Akihito has endeavored to make this as uncomfortable for you as possible. 

On the bed, he half-sits, half-lies with the lazy air of a house cat; stares at you with the imperiousness of a conqueror. 

Even beneath his lust-hazed gaze, the sharp gleam of his triumph is palpable.

His question - _do you want me this way, Asami?_ \- hangs like a Damoclean sword in this thick air, unanswered. 

But it matters not. 

Your mouth is unable to shape itself around a reply, and you _know_ he isn’t expecting one. 

And how _could_ you respond with anything but hitched breaths and humiliating groans of desire, when he’s lifting his hips like that, shoving his fingers - _two_ at once - inside himself, twisting and thrusting like he’s some dick-hungry whore?

You can’t take your eyes off him - the bright flush of his cheeks, the quick breaths escaping his lips, the way his body goes taut with pleasure.

You’ve watched him slowly come undone innumerable times, but not like _this._

 _Never_ like this. 

On his neck, he wears your teeth marks like a prize. His wrists are painted bluish-black from where the silk of your tie met the paleness of his skin the night before.

You wonder how - exposed as he is - he appears so invulnerable. 

And then he angles himself just _so,_ fingers disappearing down to the last knuckle, moans your name like it’s the most delicious sound in all the world.

You’ve never understood what _torture_ felt like till this moment.

—

Takaba Akihito is inexhaustibly kind… and _cruelest_ when it counts.

It’s in the erotic shift of his slender hips, the rapid jerk and clench of his ass, the urgent thrust of his tireless fingers.

His cock - throbbing and alluringly wet - lies unattended against the unblemished skin of his stomach. 

You want to trace the vein that runs beneath his hard length with the tip of your tongue, lick the precum off his head, brush your lips against the tender skin of his balls. 

You want to replace his fingers with your cock.

But all you can do is sit here - achingly hard and half-mad with unfulfilled need - and _watch._

Watch him watch _you._

Sweat plasters platinum blond bangs to his forehead, pours off him in a way that makes you want to lick every bead of it off his skin. His breath leaves him in stuttered pants. His fingers stubbornly keep their jerky rhythm. 

And his _eyes._

They don’t leave yours, not even when his hand falters and orgasm is wrenched out of him like bones from flesh.

—

And afterward.

There’s a sticky mess in your pants and this dull, disturbing ache in your furiously beating heart.

You can’t make sense of it - why it _hurts_ that you couldn’t touch him, knowing that he’s so close and still so far from your reach.

He looks at you - wild-eyed and disheveled, and unexplainably _beautiful._ His fingers idly play in the cum that’s splattered on his torso.

"Do you _want_ me this way, Asami?"

_Could you **love** me this way?_

You’re fully clothed and never felt so naked in your life. 

And you sit here, resenting that embarrassing wet patch on your pants and the strain in your arms and the rawness of your wrists. 

Resenting - most of all - that _stupid_ way your voice catches in your throat every time you want so badly to say, "I _always_ want you, Akihito. _All_ of you."

But he deserves more than you. And he deserves an answer. 

So - terrified as you are - you let go. 

You let down all your brick walls and your iron fortresses and you let him _see._

And you say, "I don’t like it. Being unable to touch you."

_I can’t stand it when you’re so far away from me._

The look you give him - like he’s _everything_ \- is your confession. 

And every kiss he bestows upon you feels like absolution.


End file.
